An excerpt from the life of AE follows. No empirical work is to be found, and it's a bit graphic, so if you're understandably uninterested, disregard this post.
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Five-hundred miles over two days in my cloud chariot with my best friend and two nineteen year-old girls to see my favorite band play. This is living. The encore is a letdown, yet we get bartender, nancies, and especially #41. Going in, it would be disingenuous to even call the girls casual fans, but dmb's live performance is legendary for a reason, and we don't stop dancing for nearly three hours.
After the show, we head back to our two-room suite. The pool is right in front of the lobby, so there's no way we're getting in. Wearing the perspiration that hasn't fully evaporated off of our clothes, we let my friend's media player rotate and get lost in a sublime conversation that, usually so elusive, is in such a propitious situation abundant. At 2am, my friend announces he has to get an assignment finished up for tomorrow evening's class (weekly homework in graduate school?). I guess a couple glasses of white zinfandel aids in that process. One of the girls goes to sleep shortly thereafter.
I met Kirsten three years ago, when she was a junior in high school. If she were an adjective, it would be precocity, and at that point she had been sewing wild oats for years. She binged on the weekends, smoked up almost daily and was experimenting with both coke and ecstasy, and had more notches in her belt than I did. She's at the same time stunningly sexy and, strictly by physical perception, adorably innocent. She also has a head on her shoulders, today trilingual and having scored in the 30s on the ACT. I ripped the approving narrative for her lifestyle apart; she taught me about Italian opera. I knew her deepest secrets and darkest fears, and had reduced her to tears on more than one occasion; she probably thought she knew a couple of mine. We were tight as a drum by the time she left for France for the entirety of her senior year. She'd send me facebook messages from her friends revealing their anger over how I knew more about her experiences in France than they did.
Lest you presume I was vainly cultivating some silly platonic intimacy, I knew both from mutual friends and also from not being completely oblivious that Kirsten was crazy for me. Tonight I'd hear about old diary entries that would reconfirm it. If sixteen is not too young biologically (it emphatically is not) or psychologically (it depends on the person), socially it is. A relationship with someone in high school when you're out of college just isn't realistic, and the pump-and-dump is not only an invitation to jail, it would be a vicious thing to do to someone who trusts you so thoroughly.
No, in addition to genuinely caring about Kirsten (by the time she left the country, she'd dropped the hard stuff entirely, smoked rarely, and respected her limits with alcohol), I don't close doors if I'm enjoying the draft. Though we were in regular contact for the year she was gone, when she returned stateside I saw her almost immediately, but then we dried up. Work, sports, and Magic consumed me, I'd say. Truthfully though, the avenue where we'd first met was no longer shared, and firing off facebook messages is less formidable than making and maintaining specific plans for specific times is. Anyway, freshman year of college was upon her. In the last six months, I've only seen her three times. But when she heard about the road trip, she was in full board.
The other two retired behind closed doors, she cuddles up to me on the couch as we talk. She has a "boyfriend" picked up during her time in France who is flying over in a few weeks to stay for a month. Instead of simply ignoring him, I state she surely hasn't been chaste since she last saw him. She has been. Laughing incredulously, I remark that I'm impressed that she's imbibed of Western European morality so deeply. Her face now just inches from mine, she says she's fought with everything she has not to even be a tease since she left Europe.
"Speaking of tease--" I'm interrupted by her lips. Deftly I roll over on my back. We release for a moment. She's sitting erect on my pelvis, hands pressed into my pecks.
"So hard."
"Yeah, no milk from these mammories. I know you're not used to that."
"Hey, I'm a heterosexual." I scoff. "I've just been good to some of my closest friends in the past."
I grab her hips and start grinding with a confidence earned (hard, firm, and rhythmic, that's really what it's about). After a minute or so, she stops to claim I'm trying to seduce her. In feigned disbelief I point out that she has me pinned down and I'm just trying to shake free, grinding hard as I finish the sentence. She yelps and closes her eyes, mouth agape.
Only the citadel remains. For the next three hours, we kiss and sweat, floor creaking, as I get up to the precipice time and time again, pulling back at the last possible instant each time. Hickies on breasts with a suppleness only Nature in her bounty can provide. On top now, I start scooting her into position with the thrust of my torso. The final praetorian emerges. "No. We can't. I can't do this... but I've waited so long. You're so... you're more experienced than I thought [wtf is that supposed to mean?!]."
" 'We'? What's this royal 'we'? That you'd deny yourself what you know you want has nothing to do with me [heh, logic should go out the window when she's making her final stand--let nature's passions carry you through]."
"I've had one-night stands I'll regret forever. [I don't think there's anything histrionic here, but my cynical mind keeps thinking she's spouting lines from Sex and the City or something]."
"You won't regret anything. I don't do regrettable," as I start thrusting again. A loud cross between a yelp and a hiccup. I swear I hear the classical music my friend left on as he went to sleep get louder through the closed door (he'd tell me that morning he turned it up multiple times to drown us out!)
"You're so forceful. I've never had a boy act like this. I've always been in control." God help the West if our boys are really all such castrates.
"I'm happy to introduce you to manhood."
"I'm... worried. This will all be gone. We've only seen each other three times [in the last several months]. Three very short times."
Promise a commitment now, forget tomorrow that you ever made it. That's all it takes at this point.
This is emotional vulnerability at its apex. Staring down into her gorgeous green eyes, I think I might love this girl. I'd scarcely ever given it a second thought, but ideas of our potential relationship dart through my head. Suddenly determined to stop the raging ravine, I sit up and pull her up with me.
"The short-term question means little to me. I care about the long-term."
Eyes brightening under a slightly furrowed brow she asks, "How long is the long-term?"
Awkward. I'm shooting from the hip now. Better just make light of it. "Not old-and-gray long-term," I say in mock irritation. "But more than, uh, a moon. Many, many moons, actually. Obviously!" Giggles. Whew. I continue, "So you have plenty to think about [the French boyfriend and whether or not he gets the virtual boot and that I'm almost eight years older than her, I guess]. Time to go to bed. The birds are chirping outside."
I start to stand up but she clasps me and pulls me back down. I oblige, and we play around for another five minutes or so. "Okay," I say, "that was a brief refresher just in case you weren't clear on something. Go to bed."
"Can I have a cigarette first?" This time I lift her up with me.
On the balcony, she asks if I could deal with her cigarette smoking. "You'll quit."
"You know how many people have tried to make me quit? I will when I'm ready to, but when people try to force anything on me, I get really intransigent."
"Did I say anything about making you quit? You just will. You're better than smoking. You'll see that soon."
After a brief pause, she's looking me over. "You're wet. That wasn't me." Oh shit. There are a few damp spots on my crotch. This could potentially be interpreted as revealing two bad things; 1) My ferocious self-restraint looks like a charade, and 2) I suffer from oligospermia (neither of which are true, I swear!).
"God must've topped me off this morning. There's still a full tank of fuel in this rocket." More giggles. Whew, I think.
"I don't know if you're tender enough."
"What the hell? Are you grading beef now?"
Giggles. "Tender is the wrong word. I don't know if you're gentle enough."
"I'm a gentleman if you've ever met one."
"That's not what I mean."
"You're getting delirious. Smoke's up. Go to bed. I'm going to work out."
In genuine surprise, "Hehe, that wasn't enough of a workout?"
"I'll take it easier, er, tenderer than normal." Yes dear, this guy's a machine. On the drive home later this morning, I'll make sure you stay awake if you need me to.
So, the indellible mark of a beta in alpha's clothing, or a story to recount to my son about his mother (poor kid) when we have the sex talk?
Kirsten:
---
Five-hundred miles over two days in my cloud chariot with my best friend and two nineteen year-old girls to see my favorite band play. This is living. The encore is a letdown, yet we get bartender, nancies, and especially #41. Going in, it would be disingenuous to even call the girls casual fans, but dmb's live performance is legendary for a reason, and we don't stop dancing for nearly three hours.
After the show, we head back to our two-room suite. The pool is right in front of the lobby, so there's no way we're getting in. Wearing the perspiration that hasn't fully evaporated off of our clothes, we let my friend's media player rotate and get lost in a sublime conversation that, usually so elusive, is in such a propitious situation abundant. At 2am, my friend announces he has to get an assignment finished up for tomorrow evening's class (weekly homework in graduate school?). I guess a couple glasses of white zinfandel aids in that process. One of the girls goes to sleep shortly thereafter.
I met Kirsten three years ago, when she was a junior in high school. If she were an adjective, it would be precocity, and at that point she had been sewing wild oats for years. She binged on the weekends, smoked up almost daily and was experimenting with both coke and ecstasy, and had more notches in her belt than I did. She's at the same time stunningly sexy and, strictly by physical perception, adorably innocent. She also has a head on her shoulders, today trilingual and having scored in the 30s on the ACT. I ripped the approving narrative for her lifestyle apart; she taught me about Italian opera. I knew her deepest secrets and darkest fears, and had reduced her to tears on more than one occasion; she probably thought she knew a couple of mine. We were tight as a drum by the time she left for France for the entirety of her senior year. She'd send me facebook messages from her friends revealing their anger over how I knew more about her experiences in France than they did.
Lest you presume I was vainly cultivating some silly platonic intimacy, I knew both from mutual friends and also from not being completely oblivious that Kirsten was crazy for me. Tonight I'd hear about old diary entries that would reconfirm it. If sixteen is not too young biologically (it emphatically is not) or psychologically (it depends on the person), socially it is. A relationship with someone in high school when you're out of college just isn't realistic, and the pump-and-dump is not only an invitation to jail, it would be a vicious thing to do to someone who trusts you so thoroughly.
No, in addition to genuinely caring about Kirsten (by the time she left the country, she'd dropped the hard stuff entirely, smoked rarely, and respected her limits with alcohol), I don't close doors if I'm enjoying the draft. Though we were in regular contact for the year she was gone, when she returned stateside I saw her almost immediately, but then we dried up. Work, sports, and Magic consumed me, I'd say. Truthfully though, the avenue where we'd first met was no longer shared, and firing off facebook messages is less formidable than making and maintaining specific plans for specific times is. Anyway, freshman year of college was upon her. In the last six months, I've only seen her three times. But when she heard about the road trip, she was in full board.
The other two retired behind closed doors, she cuddles up to me on the couch as we talk. She has a "boyfriend" picked up during her time in France who is flying over in a few weeks to stay for a month. Instead of simply ignoring him, I state she surely hasn't been chaste since she last saw him. She has been. Laughing incredulously, I remark that I'm impressed that she's imbibed of Western European morality so deeply. Her face now just inches from mine, she says she's fought with everything she has not to even be a tease since she left Europe.
"Speaking of tease--" I'm interrupted by her lips. Deftly I roll over on my back. We release for a moment. She's sitting erect on my pelvis, hands pressed into my pecks.
"So hard."
"Yeah, no milk from these mammories. I know you're not used to that."
"Hey, I'm a heterosexual." I scoff. "I've just been good to some of my closest friends in the past."
I grab her hips and start grinding with a confidence earned (hard, firm, and rhythmic, that's really what it's about). After a minute or so, she stops to claim I'm trying to seduce her. In feigned disbelief I point out that she has me pinned down and I'm just trying to shake free, grinding hard as I finish the sentence. She yelps and closes her eyes, mouth agape.
Only the citadel remains. For the next three hours, we kiss and sweat, floor creaking, as I get up to the precipice time and time again, pulling back at the last possible instant each time. Hickies on breasts with a suppleness only Nature in her bounty can provide. On top now, I start scooting her into position with the thrust of my torso. The final praetorian emerges. "No. We can't. I can't do this... but I've waited so long. You're so... you're more experienced than I thought [wtf is that supposed to mean?!]."
" 'We'? What's this royal 'we'? That you'd deny yourself what you know you want has nothing to do with me [heh, logic should go out the window when she's making her final stand--let nature's passions carry you through]."
"I've had one-night stands I'll regret forever. [I don't think there's anything histrionic here, but my cynical mind keeps thinking she's spouting lines from Sex and the City or something]."
"You won't regret anything. I don't do regrettable," as I start thrusting again. A loud cross between a yelp and a hiccup. I swear I hear the classical music my friend left on as he went to sleep get louder through the closed door (he'd tell me that morning he turned it up multiple times to drown us out!)
"You're so forceful. I've never had a boy act like this. I've always been in control." God help the West if our boys are really all such castrates.
"I'm happy to introduce you to manhood."
"I'm... worried. This will all be gone. We've only seen each other three times [in the last several months]. Three very short times."
Promise a commitment now, forget tomorrow that you ever made it. That's all it takes at this point.
This is emotional vulnerability at its apex. Staring down into her gorgeous green eyes, I think I might love this girl. I'd scarcely ever given it a second thought, but ideas of our potential relationship dart through my head. Suddenly determined to stop the raging ravine, I sit up and pull her up with me.
"The short-term question means little to me. I care about the long-term."
Eyes brightening under a slightly furrowed brow she asks, "How long is the long-term?"
Awkward. I'm shooting from the hip now. Better just make light of it. "Not old-and-gray long-term," I say in mock irritation. "But more than, uh, a moon. Many, many moons, actually. Obviously!" Giggles. Whew. I continue, "So you have plenty to think about [the French boyfriend and whether or not he gets the virtual boot and that I'm almost eight years older than her, I guess]. Time to go to bed. The birds are chirping outside."
I start to stand up but she clasps me and pulls me back down. I oblige, and we play around for another five minutes or so. "Okay," I say, "that was a brief refresher just in case you weren't clear on something. Go to bed."
"Can I have a cigarette first?" This time I lift her up with me.
On the balcony, she asks if I could deal with her cigarette smoking. "You'll quit."
"You know how many people have tried to make me quit? I will when I'm ready to, but when people try to force anything on me, I get really intransigent."
"Did I say anything about making you quit? You just will. You're better than smoking. You'll see that soon."
After a brief pause, she's looking me over. "You're wet. That wasn't me." Oh shit. There are a few damp spots on my crotch. This could potentially be interpreted as revealing two bad things; 1) My ferocious self-restraint looks like a charade, and 2) I suffer from oligospermia (neither of which are true, I swear!).
"God must've topped me off this morning. There's still a full tank of fuel in this rocket." More giggles. Whew, I think.
"I don't know if you're tender enough."
"What the hell? Are you grading beef now?"
Giggles. "Tender is the wrong word. I don't know if you're gentle enough."
"I'm a gentleman if you've ever met one."
"That's not what I mean."
"You're getting delirious. Smoke's up. Go to bed. I'm going to work out."
In genuine surprise, "Hehe, that wasn't enough of a workout?"
"I'll take it easier, er, tenderer than normal." Yes dear, this guy's a machine. On the drive home later this morning, I'll make sure you stay awake if you need me to.
So, the indellible mark of a beta in alpha's clothing, or a story to recount to my son about his mother (poor kid) when we have the sex talk?
Kirsten:
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